Not Today
by SwiftSnowmane
Summary: On the remote Quiet Isle, a mysterious visitor approaches a solitary beast.


**A/N:** Just a one-off drabble, slightly different take on a personal favourite scenario. Originally posted for the 'One Sentence Meme Weekly' on the Sansa_Sandor LJ, and slightly expanded from the original post. Enjoy. :)

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In the dusty gloom of the tiny stable, he paces restlessly, every so often craning his well-muscled neck over the door of his stall, pinning his ears and barring his teeth at any man or beast that passes by. The boards of the stable wall rattle as the wind from the sea sweeps through the cracks, creaking and moaning.

Nostrils flaring, he shakes his dark mane and draws in a gust of sea air; its saltiness both excites and annoys him. _The next one who comes for me who is not Master will see what a stallion bred for war can do—and I don't mean biting off ears._ The fearful ones in the long brown robes had approached him with red-hot irons, and though he had not known the instrument's purpose, he had sniffed its sadistic intent.

He had been marked by such fires before—long ago, as a young colt. Even then it had taken seven strong men to drag him screaming and bucking from the open, sunlit field into the cramped, stinking paddock. He could still feel the press of heated metal against his flank, could still smell the scorch of his own flesh. Never again had he trusted men, and had sought ever to end their wretched, hateful lives. Never again had he counted himself among those who bent to man's will.

Never again, until Master.

 _And now they keep him from me._

With sudden ferocity he slams a massive hoof into the door, sending Dog—who's been sniffing around—scrambling. _That's right, run to them._

The big black warhorse might look upon lower creatures with disdain (as horses, knowing their own beauty and power are wont to do), but secretly Stranger is envious that the shaggy hound has the freedom to come and go as he pleases, especially since more often than not these days Dog is found at _his_ master's side. _Now that winter is coming, Master will surely come for me,_ he thinks, snorting and pawing at the damp, rush-strewn earth. _This pitiful barrier won't hold me for much longer—I will break free, and soon,_ he thinks with a gleam in his black eye. _What is the point of being named for the god of death if I'm not allowed to kill anyone?_

Ears pricking, he hears footsteps approaching, and for a glorious moment he thinks it might be his master come to loose him from his confines at last. But no, this one does not have the heavy, thudding gait of the one who limps. This one's gait is soft, light as air, more bird than girl, and her scent is unlike the man-sweat of the others; rather, it is one of the hundreds of strange, exciting smells he remembers from long ago, from the sun-baked lands in the south. _Lemons._

As she approaches, his first instinct is to jerk his head upward and lash out at her, like he does to all the others who come at him with sudden, harsh movements—movements which remind him of _before._ Before he found Master. But this lemon-girl with dark, chestnut mane moves with such grace, and stands before him so calmly, humming a little tune under her breath, that he feels a strange peace settle over him. Very carefully, she lifts her open palm so he can sniff the tangy yellow lump. _An offering._

He snuffs at the treat suspiciously, huffing and wuffing into her hand, so that his whiskers, grown long in the chill air, tickle her. She giggles. He snorts, but continues eating the tart, delicious treat. He lowers his head, sheepishly hoping for more, and the lemon-girl whispers, "That's a good boy. I've come to take you and the—your master away with me. I hope you don't mind."

Oh, to set hoof beyond the bounds of this windswept prison at long last! To bear his master upon his strong back once more! Even in his swiftest dreams, Stranger has rarely felt such a sweet rush of freedom as he does at hearing those words.

Still, a part of him longs for the lists, for the battlefield, for the feeling of his hooves striking home. _Mayhaps I will kill again someday_ , he whickers, reaching for another lemony treat. _But not today._

…


End file.
